


and take me worlds away

by NoRationalThoughtRequired



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Older Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pillow Talk with Geralt and Jaskier (featuring medieval musical instruments), Post-Canon, Professor Jaskier | Dandelion, this is really just very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27309463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoRationalThoughtRequired/pseuds/NoRationalThoughtRequired
Summary: As the autumn days wear on, Geralt rides to Oxenfurt to pick up Jaskier for the winter. But this year, he has a surprise for their winter accommodations.Featuring: pumpkins, piccolos, Geralt watching Jaskier being a professor, and the two of them very much in love.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 168





	and take me worlds away

**Author's Note:**

> Several weeks ago, I asked for autumn-related prompts, and dear [MajorTrouble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble) obliged me with a prompt of _pumpkins and piccolos_.
> 
> Title is from "Seasons" by Chris Cornell. Hope you all enjoy! <3

Autumn is in full swing when Geralt guides Roach into Oxenfurt. It’s a picture perfect day, and Geralt half-expects every aspiring bard and poet and lyricist to be flitting out and about, trying desperately to capture _autumn_ , distilled to its very essence, in their words.

He passes stately trees lining the lanes, their leaves--not yet fallen to the earth--bright and bold, brilliant yellows and oranges and reds blending together into a riot of color that Geralt can’t help but admire.

The corner of his lips quirk up into a hint of a smile at the thought: Geralt of Rivia, art aficionado.

Perhaps it’s not so strange. After all, he’s spent thirty years traveling with Jaskier, listening to him compose, watching him point out every beautiful thing that catches his eye, loving him and the twinkle in his eyes and the fall of hair across his forehead and the way his hands were steady on a dagger when he would need to defend and, in turn, quick to brush a gentle caress down Ciri’s hair when she would need soothing after a nightmare. Even Geralt, a worn and weary Witcher, can learn to appreciate loveliness when he’s so often with someone who can find it in anything.

There’s a chill in the air, not sharp, not yet, but it’s still there, hovering about, a hint of the winter to come looming off in the distance. It’s not enough to drive people indoors, though. The streets of Oxenfurt are as bustling and raucous as they always are, and Geralt slowly leads Roach through the crowds towards the Academy, the _clop clop_ of her hooves on the worn cobblestones nearly lost among the shouts and songs of thousands of people going about their daily lives, precisely none of them caring that a Witcher is in their midst.

Redania and Temeria both have experienced a harvest of nearly unprecedented bounty this year--Geralt had been invited to more celebratory festivals over the past two months while he was out taking contracts (and taking care of other, very important arrangements) than he had in all the years of the previous decade combined--and it seems that the pumpkin crop has been particularly abundant. He can hardly take two steps without someone shoving pumpkin-related wares in his face. Small pumpkin pies that can fit in the palm of his hand, pumpkin muffins that are an alarming shade of orange, pumpkin breads, pumpkin cookies, even hot drinks spiced with pumpkin and cinnamon. He’s surrounded by enough pumpkin, he’s quite sure it’ll be well into winter before the smell of it disappears from his clothes.

(That doesn’t stop him from tossing a few coins to a young girl selling roasted pumpkin seeds, however. They’re one of Jaskier’s favorites, and it just wouldn’t do to turn up empty handed.

He tucks the pouch into his saddlebags and ignores Roach’s knowing snuffle with great determination.)

Yes, it’s a perfect autumn day indeed, and if it were any other day, he thinks he might be tempted to linger among the crowds, to let their enthusiasm and their good cheer and the pleasant weather surround him, envelope him, consume him. Even Witchers know to bask in a perfect day when they happen upon one.

But it has been over two months, and he is returning, at last, and he has places to be, people to see, no, no, _one person_ to see, and so he doesn’t allow himself to become further distracted, he focuses on his destination. He’s so very close.

Roach picks up the pace as they reach the bridge to take them to the Academy, attentive, as always, to his moods. She, too, senses that the end of their travels is nigh, that a rub-down and fresh hay and oats and maybe even a sugar cube or two and perhaps a song from Jaskier are in her imminent future, and Geralt pats her neck, fond. He does love her so. By the time they approach the Philosopher’s Gate, they’re both nearly bursting with anticipation.

“Ah, Master Witcher!” Damek, the gatekeeper, hails him, a broad smile shining on his face. “You’ll be looking for Master Pankratz, of course! Back the way you came, have to say. Took his afternoon class out for a practical lesson, ‘s what he called it, over at the Three Little Bells.”

Geralt hums. “He knew I’d arrive today? _I_ didn’t even know I’d arrive today.”

Damek holds out a hand and grins when Roach lips at it. “You’re a beauty, Miss Roach, you sure are,” he says, his smile somehow growing larger when Roach nuzzles at his cap, knocking it askew. “He’s been down each day this week, letting me know you’re expected ‘round this time. Told me when he and his class set out that he was quite sure today would be the day. I said, ‘Master Pankratz, you all do what you need to do, I sure will let him know, I’ll send him on to you and I’ll take care of getting his best girl all settled in,’ and he clapped me on the shoulder and said that sounded fine, and now here you are, and he was right!”

Geralt slides off the saddle and snags the pouch of pumpkin seeds to put in his pocket before giving Roach a pat on her flank and a scritch behind her ears. “He was indeed. I’ll leave Roach in your capable hands.”

Damek gives him a jaunty wave, and Geralt waits until he’s leading Roach away to the stables, murmuring praises and endearments to her all the while, before he tucks two gold pieces under the corner of the guest book and slips away, back across the bridge.

  
*

  
By the time Geralt reaches the Three Little Bells, the sun has started making its descent towards the horizon, and the early evening crowd is trickling in for a drink and some entertainment after the day’s work is done.

When he walks inside, he instantly sees a dozen young people--their wide eyes and fresh faces making it obvious they are Academy students--sitting around a long table, scrolls and fancy leather journals and quills in every color of the rainbow strewn about the tabletop amid half-a-dozen tankards of ale and wine glasses. One of their compatriots stands near the fireplace, strumming a lute, softly warbling a tune about dancing among daisies to two finely-dressed young women.

Jaskier stands near the head of the table of students, leaning back against a wooden support beam. His cane--a necessary addition after a frightful encounter with a griffin three years prior--rests next to him, well within reach if he requires it. His arms are crossed over his chest, his doublet long gone in favor of standing about in just his shirtsleeves, and there’s a slight frown on his face that only grows as his student keeps singing. Geralt’s eyes wander over the gray liberally peppered throughout Jaskier’s hair, becoming more and more prominent every time Geralt leaves on a contract and comes back, over the lean strength of him that hasn’t gone away despite his less frequent travels but lies coiled, waiting, over the eyeglasses perched on the tip of his nose that do nothing to hide the sharpness of his still-so-very-blue gaze.

He looks good. He looks _damn_ good, and Geralt, near overcome, slides into a booth in the corner, hoping to do so unnoticed so he can have a moment to revel in observing his partner unseen.

No such luck.

Jaskier’s gaze follows him, and he aims a wink in Geralt’s direction. Geralt rolls his eyes; at Jaskier’s antics, forever irrepressible, yes, but also at himself for daring to think he could walk into a room of an inn and somehow have Jaskier _not_ immediately be aware of his presence. They’re too attuned to each other for _that_ to happen.

“No, no, no, no, no! _No_!” Jaskier’s attention wanders away only briefly before it’s back on his hapless student, and Geralt laughs to himself as the student’s shoulders hunch in on themselves and the rest of Jaskier’s students sit up straighter, grabbing their quills and spare parchment to take notes. “Tomas, what are you doing wrong?”

Tomas looks at Jaskier who stares back, unforgiving; he looks at his classmates who stare back, uncomprehending; he looks at the targets of his musical affections who stare back, uncaring.

“Um. My voice is a little flat today?”

“Oh, it is indeed,” Jaskier confirms, “but that is the _least_ of your musical sins at the moment.”

Jaskier ignores the titter that runs through the room and pushes off from the pole. He doesn’t quite _strut_ over to where Tomas--who is clearly wishing for a hole to open up right there in the middle of the floor and swallow him whole--stands, but it’s a near thing. He holds out a hand, and Tomas surrenders his lute. Jaskier gives it a strum, adjusts a tuning peg with a reproachful glance in Tomas’s direction, and strums it once more.

“You’re singing to these very lovely ladies, and of course you want them to notice you, they’re beautiful, who wouldn’t desire their attention, their affection? What’s the problem with singing to them?”

“Um?”

As Tomas flounders for an answer, Geralt leans back in the booth and nods a thanks to the barmaid as she brings over a tankard of ale. He doesn’t bother to hide the fond smile that creeps up on his face at Jaskier’s idea of a practical lesson.

“There are fifty other people in the room, Tomas. The day is done, their work is over, they’re here to enjoy a drink and a hearty meal and some music and some dancing, and unless they enjoy watching a young bardling make a fool of himself trying to win over a pretty lady--which, they might! I certainly would not judge them if that’s what they like to see!--they do _not_ want to hear your bumbling attempts to woo someone into sharing your bed for the evening. Class! Think back to three months ago! Lesson the first!”

“Know your audience!” the class shouts in unison. The inn’s patrons echo this with rowdy cheers and raised glasses.

“Know your audience, Tomas!” Jaskier shouts. He hands the lute back over with a flourish. “Your poetry is lovely, your imagery is, quite frankly, inspired, and I was impressed with that metaphor about the lost petals and the years slipping away, but this is neither the time nor the place! Your audience is more than two women to woo. They want a song of adventure, Tomas!” The crowd cheers. “They want a song of derring-do!” Another cheer. “They _all_ want to feel as though you’re singing to _them_ and only to them. Now sing! And for Melitele’s sake, sing _in tune_ this time!”

Tomas takes a deep breath and launches into a lively tale about a dragon, slowly finding his footing as his classmates stamp their feet and clap their hands and sing along, and the patrons begin to as well, and Jaskier watches him critically for a verse and then leaves him to it, circling back to grab his cane before making his way to Geralt’s booth.

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “More than thirty years on, and that line has _not_ improved with age.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jaskier croons, a saucy smirk firmly in place as he slides in next to Geralt and places a kiss right at the corner of his lips. “It seems to have gotten me exactly what I wanted both times. Hello, love.”

“Hello.” Geralt doesn’t kiss him back, but he does reach underneath the table and tangle their fingers together. “Is your leg bothering you today?”

“Not really,” Jaskier sighs, leaning over so that his head rests against Geralt’s. “I just brought the cane with me because we walked all the way over here, in case I needed it. Contracts all fulfilled? I imagine this part of the Continent is thrilled to be heading into the winter months with a Witcher--the White Wolf, no less--having just been by, clearing the area.”

“I certainly got invited to more than my fair share of festivals in thanks.”

“Oh, did you dance? I would have liked to see--good, Tomas!” Jaskier calls back to his students as the song ends and Tomas takes a bow to rapturous applause, the inn’s patrons tossing coins at the students’ table. “Well done! Natalia, you’re up, keep it lively! You and everyone else! This is a vital part of your grade!”

“Is it really?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Never hurts to let them think it. So tell me, did you dance at all these festivals?”

He stares at Geralt, blue eyes wide and guileless, clearly on the verge of outright batting his eyelashes, and Geralt reaches over to push his eyeglasses up his nose, laughing at Jaskier’s squawk of indignation. “You should know by now that I save all my dances for you.”

“Ah.” Jaskier chuckles, caught off guard, and he glances down for a moment. When he looks up and meets Geralt’s eyes again, the smile on his face is soft, sincere. “You might not have my poetry, Geralt, but don’t ever think you’re not a romantic at heart.”

“If you say so.”

“Excuse me, Master Witcher,” Jaskier says, poking him in the chest, right over his heart. “You might be the master of saving villages and towns and cities from creatures intent on destruction, but I? I am Master Julian Pankratz, and I am a master of poetry and matters of the heart, and if I say you’re a romantic, then you _are_ one, and I’ll hear no argument against it, none at all.”

“Hmmm. I can live with that, I suppose.” Geralt leans into Jaskier, ensures that they’re pressed together, a line all the way from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes. “Shall we eat here?”

“If you want to have something edible, yes. There’s naught but moldy cheese and some hard ends of bread back in my rooms. And wine, of course. But I figure with all your Witchering, you’d probably like something a bit more substantial. I wanted to wait until you were here before I stocked up on food, lest I get it too early and most of it go to waste.”

“Sensible of you,” Geralt says, turning his head ever so slightly, so the words are spoken into Jaskier’s hair, still so soft and fine and smelling vaguely of honey.

“If _you_ can be romantic, _I_ can be sensible,” Jaskier replies, and when he tips his face up for a kiss, Geralt doesn’t have it within him to refuse.

  
*

  
They eat sitting side by side, trading glances, heat and desire and _want_ sparking in Jaskier’s gaze.

The wine is a good vintage and it flows freely, loosening them both up, making them freer with their attentions, their affections. Jaskier hooks his foot around Geralt’s ankle more than once, letting it rest there before shifting and slowly tracing the tip of his boot up the back of Geralt’s calf, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his lips when he sees the muscle in Geralt’s jaw clench, tension building and then a slow release.

By the time their meal ends (and Geralt’s pouch of pumpkin seeds has been thoroughly depleted), and as the third bottle of wine tips into the fourth, all of Jaskier’s students have stumbled out of the Three Little Bells, flush with successful performances and fine ales and kisses from young ladies (bestowed upon Natalia, not Tomas). Away at last from his students’ prying eyes, Jaskier presses himself so close to Geralt’s side that he sits practically in Geralt’s lap, his hands wandering, but always returning to settle high on Geralt’s thigh, his dexterous fingers dancing along the seam of Geralt’s trousers to a rhythm that only he could hear.

Geralt grabs at his fingers, stilling them, lifting them away. “Should we . . . here?”

Jaskier lays one finger over Geralt’s lips and leans _closer_. “My darling, it’s _Oxenfurt_ , no one will bat an eye. But I’ll keep us just on the right side of avoiding public indecency, for the sake of your delicate sensibilities.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at that, but he also brings Jaskier’s fingers, still caught within his grasp, up to his lips and brushes a kiss across them before replacing Jaskier’s hand along his thigh. He enjoys the way Jaskier’s eyes darken, the way he sways even closer, the way the tannins in the wine on his breath mix with his usual natural scent, honey and lillies, and that spicy cinnamon that signals _lust_. Geralt wraps his arm around and settles his hand low on Jaskier’s stomach, just below the laces of his breeches, right where he can give a light tug to the end of one of the laces, enjoying the jolt that runs through Jaskier--a jolt that Geralt can feel, pressed as close as they are--and the slight hitch of his breath.

Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder once more, and if Geralt buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair and basks in the scent of him, clean and warm and so very familiar to him, Jaskier certainly isn’t about to call him out on it. As they drain their fourth bottle of wine and the barmaid catches his eye and raises a full one, a silent query, Geralt draws Jaskier’s attention to her with a nod and a low _hmmmm?_

Jaskier turns his face fully into Geralt’s neck and murmurs, his lips brushing right over Geralt’s pulse, slow but steady, “No more for tonight. Let’s away back to my rooms.” His hand drifts higher, the dance of his fingers become teasing. “Take me to bed, Witcher.”

And so Geralt does, once they hurry back across the city to Jaskier’s rooms at the Academy, detouring only to the stables so that Geralt can check on Roach and Jaskier can feed her a handful of oats. He doesn’t need Jaskier to lead the way. Over the years, as his and Jaskier’s lives have entwined, slowly becoming one, Oxenfurt Academy has become nearly as familiar to Geralt as Kaer Morhen. Jaskier’s rooms--with the stone walls covered with tapestries, and the bookcases stuffed full of weighty tomes and hard-to-find manuscripts and ink-scrawled pieces of parchment, and the thousand shiny bits and bobs picked up over years of travels and that practically scream _Jaskier_ \--are, for good portions of the year, effectively _Geralt’s_ rooms, too, and they bring peace, security, _comfort_ to him.

He thinks about that as he slowly and methodically takes Jaskier absolutely apart, lavishing attention with his lips and fingertips, cataloguing every breath and sigh, every gasp and moan.

He is overcome; he is undone.

He loses himself in sensation, feeling more than he ever thought it was possible for one person to feel, and he wonders, in the one part of his mind holding out against the onslaught of affection and devotion and adoration and that is still capable of coherent thought, how Jaskier can make him feel like this, every time, as if they are embarking together on some bold quest, new and raw, but tempered with familiarity, with _knowing_ each other, every tell, every sign, which somehow only makes the passion burn brighter and hotter and _longer_.

Geralt _knows_ Jaskier, and Jaskier knows him, and once that thought, that prospect, had terrified him, but now it brings him nothing but joy.

He’s not alone in this feeling, if Jaskier’s breathy laugh, dazed with bliss, awestruck with contentment, is any indication.

(That, too, brings comfort to him: they experience this _together_ , both of them constantly amazing themselves and each other.)

“You never do fail to astonish me, darling,” Jaskier murmurs, his fingers idly tracing nonsense patterns on Geralt’s chest, his lips pressing the barest hint of kisses along the tops of Geralt’s shoulders. 

Geralt hums and starts to reach down to pull the quilt up over them both when something catches his eye amid the absolute chaos that is Jaskier’s desk. Something white, made out of ivory, perhaps, with holes in it and beautiful blue detailing along the ends. “What is _that_? Did you get a new instrument?”

“Hmmm?” Jaskier looks over, instantly alert and attentive at the talk of instruments. “Oh, that!”

He reaches down among the covers and recovers Geralt’s shirt, pulling it over his head as he clambers over Geralt--carefully, in deference to his leg--to stand at his desk. The hem of the shirt barely brushes the tops of his thighs, and Geralt wants to run his fingers along that path, and then he remembers: nothing is stopping him. So he does.

“Now now, none of that,” Jaskier mutters, but when he plucks the instrument from his desk and settles back into bed, he throws both his legs over Geralt’s lap, and the invitation is really rather obvious. Geralt accepts it, and does so eagerly. Jaskier shivers at the trace of Geralt’s fingertips, but further protestations are nowhere to be found on his lips.

“It’s a piccolo!” he says, his delight obvious. “Triss happened upon a luthier in Beauclair who has begun dabbling in wind instruments. She remembered that I had a few flutes”--he gestures to a wooden flute resting on the windowsill and a slightly larger one precariously perched on a stack of papers on a bookshelf and another one, perhaps made of bone, sitting on a bright teal doublet in the desk chair--”and she thought I might enjoy adding this one to my collection. She brought it by, oh, maybe a month ago?”

“It’s a tiny flute?” It _is_ rather small, and Geralt hesitates to touch it. Delicate things haven’t always fared well in his grasp.

Jaskier smiles, warm and pleased. “Essentially, yes. Made of ivory. This luthier decided it needed a little adornment, hence the blue paint. I like it. Gives it character.”

“Well. Are you going to play it, then?” Geralt asks. He shifts so that he’s sitting up against the headboard of the bed, Jaskier’s legs still carelessly over his.

“I’m not sure piccolos are well-suited to Witcher ears, my darling. This one is rather . . . shrill.”

“I’m curious now. I want to hear it.”

“Stubborn Witcher,” Jaskier says, but he obliges by playing a portion of what Geralt instantly recognizes as _Toss a Coin_.

Shrill was perhaps an understatement.

Geralt winces, and Jaskier stops, immediately.

“There are four words that I am very determinedly _not saying_ right now, love.”

“Yes, yes,” Geralt says, groaning while Jaskier looks extraordinarily smug. He scrapes his fingernails along the side of Jaskier’s knee, a warning against further smugness in advance of his next words. “You were right. Piccolos are not for Witchers.”

Jaskier cuddles closer, almost entirely into Geralt’s lap at this point, and presses a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “Indeed, no. Although I’ve been talking with some of the other professors in the music department and we’re thinking of searching out someone in Oxenfurt, or maybe Novigrad, who makes instruments. Maybe we can tinker with the materials a little bit, come up with a timbre that’s not quite so . . . grating. We found someone a few weeks ago who’s been experimenting with trumpets, Geralt! He found a way to add a kind of valve, it’s all really very fascinating, what’s being done these days.”

“Can you play the trumpet?”

“Oh, not with any skill at all!” Jaskier seems completely unbothered by this. Geralt can’t help the smile that blooms on his face. “I find wind instruments intriguing; they sound so different from strings. But they’ll never be my first choice. Hard to serenade a crowd when you’re trying to play a trumpet or a flute or a piccolo. I’ll take my lute any day. A mandolin, perhaps. A harp, in a pinch. A set of drums, if I’m absolutely at my wit’s end.” 

“I’d like to hear more,” Geralt says, utterly charmed by Jaskier’s enthusiasm. “More of all of these instruments.”

Jaskier brandishes the piccolo. “Well, a piccolo definitely doesn’t take up much room in a pack. It’s not very friendly for Witcher ears, but maybe that’s just because I’ve had little practice with it and I haven’t yet unlocked its secrets. I’ll bring it along with us to Kaer Morhen. If all else fails, I can probably annoy Lambert with it once or twice before Vesemir bans it from the premises and I have to trek out into the forest to play it.”

Geralt clears his throat. “About that.”

“Are . . . we _not_ . . . going to Kaer Morhen for the winter? I suppose I shouldn’t have presumed, but we usually do, so I figured--”

It’s been years since King Niedamir’s Mountain and the harsh words that very nearly ruined one of the best things that has ever happened to him, and Geralt has apologized, repeatedly and sincerely, and Jaskier has forgiven him, repeatedly and sincerely. Their relationship is solid, secure. They know where they stand with each other, the places they hold in the other’s heart. Sometimes, though, the specter of it still raises its head. Geralt knows he has to speak quickly, or doubt will start to set in.

“Jaskier, you are part of my family. You are always welcome at Kaer Morhen. _Always_. I just . . . had a different idea this year, that’s all. That’s part of why I was away for so long. There were a large number of contracts, of course. But I might have taken a slight detour while I was away.” 

“A detour.”

“Yes. Maybe fifty leagues southwest of here. I was making arrangements.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes, but the tension that had started to flood the room when Geralt said they wouldn’t be going to Kaer Morhen had vanished before it could take hold, and now there’s only barely-concealed mirth. “Are you going to tell me what kind of arrangements you were making?”

Geralt pulls Jaskier fully into his lap, tightens his hold. “Winter accommodations. For us. A cottage on the coast. Owned by a cousin of a friend of someone’s brother. I called in a few favors.”

After more than three decades of following a Witcher all over the Continent, Jaskier is hard to surprise. Geralt, though. Geralt manages it.

“The coast?” Jaskier whispers, his voice tremulous, almost fragile. His expression is hard to parse, but there’s _hope_ there, hope and faith and love, and it’s _beautiful_. 

“I think that a piccolo would sound lovely there, even to my Witcher ears. _Especially_ to my Witcher ears. Don’t you?”

A tear slides down Jaskier’s cheek, but he laughs, too, bright and bold, and he smiles when Geralt reaches up, smoothes the tear away. “I think the open air would probably help the piccolo’s sound, yes.”

“And, if the open air doesn’t help, you can annoy Lambert with the piccolo at Kaer Morhen next year.”

“Sounds like a perfect plan.”

Jaskier is smiling as Geralt kisses him, and Geralt thinks, as he sets the piccolo aside and presses Jaskier down into the quilts and sheets and pillows, _a perfect plan to end the perfect autumn day_.

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am _extremely_ on my bullshit about Jaskier and his fellow music professors at Oxenfurt being total geeks about musical instruments and all of them working together to come up with new materials for constructing instruments and ways to improve acoustics and sound quality and inventing new instruments, hundreds of years before they were actually invented in our universe.
> 
> I have _no_ knowledge of the piccolo repertoire, but I _did_ listen to Debussy's [Syrinx for Solo Flute](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YEyKM13yf_4) on repeat while editing this, so please imagine Jaskier playing this for Geralt while at their cottage on the coast and Geralt looking at him with the biggest case of HEART EYES a Witcher has ever had, and please ignore that Jaskier definitely would not have been playing a modern flute like in the video _shhhhhhhhhh_.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Come say hi on [tumblr](https://norationalthoughtrequired.tumblr.com/)!


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